


i am my father's son

by hotmesslewis



Category: Lewis and Clark
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Other, just Lewis all Lewis always Lewis, pre-Clark too, pre-Corps of Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 13:15:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11875278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmesslewis/pseuds/hotmesslewis
Summary: Meriwether Lewis gets drunk.  And makes a rather stupid mistake, or a few.  (We've all been there, boyo, don't feel too badly.)





	i am my father's son

**Author's Note:**

> Based on historical events (although the details are as interpreted by me--whether or not the man was drunk is debatable). Also based on the song "Alcohol" by Sisyphus.

At the fine and handsome young age of twenty-one, Meriwether Lewis still got drunk for the fun of it.

There wasn’t that pressing driving pushing need yet for the alcohol alcohol alcohol alcohol. It wasn’t the crushing loneliness or the existential nihilistic dread or the fear or self-loathing whatever other fine line of bullshit the ever-eponymous “they” gave on as to the reasons men became drunkards. 

It was a plain and simple thing: that it was fun to be drunk.

Don’t misunderstand, of course—the importance is in the difference of “drinking” and “being drunk.” And most of the fine young men of his generation and his breeding found the pleasure in the act, not in the result. Which is why young Lewis was of the confirmed opinion that most of the fine young men of his generation and his breeding were idiots.

See, the difference: the act was a bore. Because the act was an inherently and intentionally social thing. It was a difficult concept for him to grasp, the importance of the social, when he considered his mildly unpleasant worries of being in the company of other men (a wandering eye and the potential threat of wandering hands, with veritable strangers who wouldn’t understand his peculiar inclinations. But Lewis held himself in high enough regard that he could trust to keep his hands to himself, save for the greatest of provocations, in which case, well, would the other parties involved be so likely to tell? A thing that had happened once—the single mistake of a moment, and unlikely to be repeated). Still beyond this, he never could fully appreciate the purely social. He found little pleasure in the mere company of most others of his species. It was not that he was in particular opposed to the company of others—it was more that he could not care one way or the other. There were a few exceptions, but (it was a holdover from his father’s blood) that he just didn’t understand well the pressures: what people expected of him. What they wanted of him. He did not seek out companionship as a rule, nor did it seek him out, so it made little difference whether he was with others or alone.

Although there was, Lewis felt, something mortifying in that unique way that alcohol made a man lose touch with himself, but that wasn’t too much of a concern. After all, when one was in such a state, one hardly, to use the vulgar, gave a shit of the opinions of others.

And beyond the company, the act itself could hardly be a thing of delight: the slow gagging burn of it. Especially this homemade western stuff. Inferior in quality, in comparison to the usual fare of a gentleman of his breeding.

The point, he considered, in contemplation of the remainder of the liquid amber in the bottle: that the fun was in being drunk.

(He wasn’t sure how much he’d had already, but the remaining amount was so insignificant—what, maybe two of his fingers tall?—that it seemed a shame to leave it, as it surely would get quite lonely being only such a small fraction of its whole.)

The key was (the key was another pull, quick and messy, from the only lips his own thirsty ones were likely to touch for the rest of his life—so was his conviction)—the key was, to drink as much as possible and as quickly as possible. It wasn’t so difficult, really. Particularly if he kept his focus on the latter. Because the more quickly he drank, the less he needed to be drunk.

Which was nice.

In the army, even a gentleman must learn to be economical.

In the damned army, surrounded by so much ignorant Federalist filth, a fine young man of his breeding and his connections, and even his bastard captain—

Two sips more and all he felt was the amber power running like the sweetest nectar in his veins.

He felt good.

(For a change.)

Damn good.

It was nice.

But the bottle was too small, Lewis was starting to suspect.

It was amazing what a little bit of cheap whiskey could do for a body. How he felt warm and loose and strong all at once now. The little bit of spinning his tent was doing was a minor inconvenience, but one easily overcome by just closing his eyes for a minute. Or perhaps more than a minute, or perhaps laying down slowly, and staying that way for a minute. (He could take another laying down, stretched out on his side like this; he’d done it before. Inconvenience easily overcome with another pull from the bottle, you see.) Inconvenience worth it to feel comfortable in his body for a change. Like it fit. That it wasn’t too loose or too tight in all the places that counted, but that he fit into it properly, like a thing that belonged to him. Yes, whiskey was nice, and it was only his eyes or maybe the part of the mind that saw things that wasn’t working quite right at the moment.

Another drink, then, to fix that (he had told himself that he would but didn’t recall if he had already).

Or maybe one more.

Or maybe one more.

(Had he done that already? He wasn’t sure, but he was sure that it hardly mattered.)

It wasn’t that he was lonely or sick to death of his own miserable company at all, you see, it was important to recognize that it was just fun. It was comfortable and warm and fun to be drunk.

Another pull, then, and one beyond that to push him over the edge from comfort and into euphoric, righteous rage.

And then—instead of being warm? He was on fire. His blood ached and his bones burned and he had to do something or he was going to tear his solitary tent down onto himself.

And that would have been fun only he was furious (fun in fury: it was real and existed and he relished in it) and there was surely something better that he could do, something not so self-destructive. He had to do something.

It was funny, he thought, that he considered self-destruction at all. He was not so unhappy with himself as all that, surely.

(It was also funny that he was so thirsty for the last few drops of the bottle that he was running his tongue along the very inside of the neck to try to catch them, and glad that there was no one else to witness his shamelessness. Instinct, he supposed, and best not to question the nature of it. He had to do something.)

So he did something.

He might not have remembered sitting up, but he did remember standing, or trying to, as it was a bit more difficult than he suspected he found it usually. Still, he found his legs under the rest of him soon enough and let the memory of motion carry him forward.

It wasn’t all so difficult after all, when he moved with all the grace and power of a young buck, with all the purpose of a young buck, fight or fuck.

(No, not the latter—he was above that. He lacked the instincts of a man there. And anyway, it was strange that such impulses only came to him when intoxicated and felt that he was very little of himself at all. Or perhaps more of himself. Or—he knew a bit of the science of it—maybe everything was in the flow of the blood, and it was purely a physical, a chemical thing, but still, it served him best not to think of some of the boys with whom he was friends. Revise the thought, then.)

He moved with all the purpose of a young buck, with all the fight.

There were all those God damned Federalists.

In his camp, you understand. It was lousy with Federalists, the abominations to the young nation.

There was that asshole of a captain—Elliot, the man’s name.

Fight, then—the inevitable pull toward destruction, but in an attempt to not tear down his own house, he would seek out something noble and righteous. The honor of defending his politics.

There was a man back home in Virginia who might be proud of him for this. He’d love to earn his respect.

(He’d like more to earn his love and esteem, but that was too honest a thing for a fatherless boy to admit.)

How didn’t they comprehend, the Federalists, those men lining up to lick the boots of Alexander Hamilton and his brethren, how crooked their politics were?

(Speaking of “crooked,” there was the matter of his balance, or more so, his lack thereof. So long as he stayed in motion, it was hardly a concern, but if he stopped for a moment things became more difficult than anticipated, so he moved consistently forward. Or at least, he moved consistently. It was a little difficult and a little troubling that he could not quite ascertain if the direction that he was moving was “forward.” There were the lights of the captain’s house not too far in the distance—he moved, generally, in that direction; enough so to be satisfied with his progress when the world insisted on holding itself at such a damnable stubborn tilt.)

There was the door—he came upon it quite unexpectedly. He anticipated, or perhaps had hoped for, a longer journey. Or maybe the journey was as long as he had hoped it to be, and he just didn’t realize it.

Much as he hardly realized that he was banging his fists, no, his open hands, his palms against the door. And yelling to be granted entry. And perhaps swearing, and out loud.

He hadn’t realized that there had been so much laughter and light coming from the house until it suddenly stopped. It was funny, it occurred to him, that the silence made the light seem dimmer.

It took Lewis a moment to realize that the door had been opened and he was staring into the face of the damned fool Captain Elliot. It was a face designed to infuriate any non-sober man—his cheeks were too round and womanishly flushed (he must have been imbibing too, the ripe bastard, but it was undoubtedly wine and not hard liquor, like a real man would drink), his lips were too full. Lewis knew the man had fair hair, but in the candlelight it took on a golden red gleam and that, more than anything else, set him off.

He didn’t know what he said.

He wasn’t quite sure what he did.

There might have been some swearing. He might have tried to throw a punch (he didn’t connect with anything, if he did). He might have spit in the man’s face. Or at his feet.

He was pretty sure he challenged someone to a duel; the captain, he suspected. He was pretty sure he was laughed at, too, and maybe that was when he spat. Was restrained. Dragged, lacking all due ceremony, from the room. Dumped, with said same ceremony outside his own quarters.

Supposing he crawled back into his tent, but he woke, well approaching noon the following day, on top of a blanket or two crushed beneath him on the floor, instead of in his bed proper.

The plea of “not guilty” at his court-martial a month and a half later was more a matter, then, of being uncertain of the truth and less a matter of lying, for Lewis held himself in high esteem for his unfailing honesty. And the man could not say, himself, if the threats and gestures of violence or request of a duel “to the death” (had he really gone so far as that? Maybe it had been more a matter of self-destruction than he had realized) were true or false, the fabricated fables of a sour man with a chip on his shoulder and an instinct to eliminate the competition of an enterprising, promising young rival for promotion such as himself. Not guilty, your esteemed honor—at least, not soberly guilty. Surely intention (and intoxication) counted for something in the eyes of the law (they were all men, all had known what it was like to take one drink too many). May kindness and mercy rule always in his favor.


End file.
